


push your luck

by imagines



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Hockey AU, M/M, OtaYuri Week 2017, The Leather Jacket, The Motorcycle, also so much flirting, badboy!otabek, clothes-borrowing, friendship confession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 15:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10129091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagines/pseuds/imagines
Summary: Yuri doesn’t even like hockey. The brute force, the hurled insults, and blood on the ice as a mark of honor instead of a sign of a horrible mistake? No thanks. He’s only come early to the rink so he can get on the ice the moment the team has finished practicing. Honestly, he’s not even looking at their shoulders or thighs or anything. He’s too busy snapchatting Mila pictures of his new skate covers (leopard print), the rink (outdoors on a mountain and very very cool), and okay, maybe a cute butt or two. For her sake. Not his. He has a single-minded focus that does not involve hockey players. This will be his first Olympics, and he’s arrived a couple of weeks before he needed to, so he can get comfortable at the rink and sneak in a little sight-seeing as well.(In which Otabek quits figure skating after the training camp, and they don't meet again until 2018.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> dONT MAKE ME WRITE TITLES i hate titles i hate them. i name all story files things like “anotherfuckingchatfic” and “hockey AU idk.”
> 
> anyway this is [otayuriism’s](http://otayuriism.tumblr.com) fault.

Yuri doesn’t even _like_ hockey. The brute force, the hurled insults, and blood on the ice as a mark of honor instead of a sign of a horrible mistake? No thanks. He’s only come early to the rink so he can get on the ice the moment the team has finished practicing. Honestly, he’s not even looking at their shoulders or thighs or anything. He’s too busy snapchatting Mila pictures of his new skate covers (leopard print), the rink (outdoors on a _mountain_ and very very cool), and okay, maybe a cute butt or two. For her sake. Not his. _He_ has a single-minded focus that does not involve hockey players. This will be his first Olympics, and he’s arrived a couple of weeks before he needed to, so he can get comfortable at the rink and sneak in a little sight-seeing as well.

He’s so focused on his phone that he’s unaware of the player hurtling toward him until it’s too late to jump back, and this shaggy-haired asshole twists his hips to stop, spraying ice over the boards and straight into Yuri’s face.

“Heads up,” the guy says.

Yuri glares at him, wiping melting ice out of his eyes. “What. The. Fuck.”

The guy shrugs his broad, powerful shoulders. ( _Shut up_ , Yuri orders his traitorous mind.) “You looked bored. I thought I’d wake you up a little.”

“Of course I’m bored. I’m just here to practice my own shit—I don’t care about _hockey_ ,” Yuri says, as though _hockey_ is in the same category as _cat puke_.

The guy yanks off one glove and sticks out his hand. “I’m Otabek.”

Yuri does not shake it.

“Altin?” the guy tries again. “Come on, I know you’ve heard of Beka Altin.”

“I haven’t,” Yuri says.

“Beka!” yells one of the other players. “Stop flirting and get your ass back here!”

“See ya, babe,” the guy says with a _really annoying_ wink, and skates away to rejoin practice.

Mila flips when Yuri texts her what just happened. Apparently this Altin dude is some hotshot center for Kazakhstan’s national team, whose number of assists ranks just ahead of the number of off-ice scandals in which he’s been involved, including but not limited to: street-racing players from opposing teams on his motorcycle, getting caught _sleeping_ with players from opposing teams, and leaking his own nudes. (Mila offers to email him a folder of the latter.) Yuri definitely does not give a shit.

Practice over, the team thunders off the rink and past Yuri into the locker rooms. Yuri refuses to look at them; instead he stares resolutely across the ice, watching the Zamboni. Then it’s headphones in, guards off, and finally he’s in his element. His freshly-sharpened blades are almost silent on the ice, and he begins with some easy spirals for the sheer joy of the cold air rushing by, the pleasant stretch of his free leg, his torso bent low, pushing to see how deep an edge he can hold.

 

Some time later, he’s just beginning to enter a spin when he catches sight of a familiar figure off in the corner, leaning on the boards. He skids to a halt in the middle of the rink, hands on his hips. He’s paying out the ass to practice _alone_.

“Don’t mind me,” Altin calls.

Yuri skates over to him. “What the fuck is your obsession with me? Are you stalking me or something?”

“Whoa!” Altin raises his hands, palms toward Yuri. “If it bothers you so much, I’ll go. But do you want to know a secret before I leave?”

“ _No_ ,” Yuri snaps.

“I used to figure skate,” Altin says, and _that’s_ enough to startle Yuri into silence. “Yeah, really. I was good, too, just—not good enough. There was this training camp where I realized I wasn’t going to make it…Anyway, as you can see, I do all right.” He gestures to his uniform.

What a horrifying idea. Yuri’s even more relieved that his skating career survived his growth spurt—what if he’d been trapped in this sport instead? He’d probably take up knitting before doing that. “I could never switch to hockey. There’s no beauty in it. No art.”

Altin cocks his head. “You might be surprised. Why don’t you come watch a game? I can get you a ticket.”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead.”

“Suit yourself.” Altin half-smiles. “Good luck with your practice.” He turns away, beginning to walk toward the exit.

“Hey,” Yuri says.

“Yeah?”

“You can stay and watch. If you want.”

The smile broadens. “I guess I can spare a little more of my time. By the way, what’s your name?”

Yuri tells him.

“Huh,” Altin says, as if Yuri’s name is especially interesting to him for some reason. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. Think you could stand to shake my hand now?”

“Don’t push your luck, Altin,” Yuri says.

 

Somehow they settle into a comfortable routine: Yuri starts arriving even earlier to the rink, supposedly to have more time to stretch, but no one said he can’t stretch close enough to the boards to watch the team practice. He still doesn’t see whatever _beauty_ Altin thinks there is, but he has to admit, they’re all incredible skaters—even if they insist on body-slamming each other onto the ice every five minutes.

After the team is done, Altin disappears into the locker room to change while Yuri takes the ice, then returns to linger at the boards. He doesn’t keep up a pretense of doing anything other than looking at Yuri, but they don’t _talk_ or anything. And Altin always leaves before Yuri finishes, eliminating the need for any awkward polite conversation on the way out the door.

Only, one day, he doesn’t leave.

Yuri steps off the ice, breathing hard after running through his free skate one last time. He looks sideways at Altin. “Did you need something?”

“I was wondering if you’re hungry.”

Yuri squints at him. “I just skated my ass off for three hours. What do you think?”

Altin picks at his thumbnail, not looking at Yuri. “I know a good café nearby. My treat.”

It’s a fucking stupid idea, and Altin’s probably just trying to get in his pants, but at least a café isn’t, like, a bar or anything. “Okay,” Yuri says. “Show me.”

“Showing him” involves Yuri clambering onto a motorcycle and clinging to Altin's waist so as not to fall off, while Altin tears down side streets and around curves as if the entirety of the Russian national hockey team is on his tail. Yuri hopes the speed they’re going will prevent anyone from recognizing his face, because the last thing he needs is to get wrapped up somehow in one of Altin’s scandals just by being seen with him.

They screech to a halt outside a tiny café with a white awning, bright yellow façade, and green wooden flowerboxes, which naturally are currently full of ice and snow instead of flowers. “We’re here,” Altin says.

“I gathered.”

The white-haired woman at the counter looks up and smiles when they walk in. “Beka!” she says, stepping around the counter to hug him.

“Hello, _täte_ ,” Altin says. “I’ve brought company today. This is Yuri.”

The woman laughs and asks Altin something in Kazakh, her eyebrows raised.

Altin rolls his eyes. “No, he’s not one of my many boyfriends,” he answers—still in Russian, apparently for Yuri’s benefit. “I met him at the rink—he’s a figure skater. And yes, I have noticed his striking green eyes—”

“ _Okay_ ,” Yuri snaps.

Altin’s barely holding back laughter. “Sorry, _täte_ , we’re pretty hungry after practicing. Although _he’s_ grouchy all the time—” He neatly sidesteps Yuri’s elbow.

They order sandwiches, and the woman points them to a table in the back of the café where it’s warmest. Altin also asks for a cup of black tea, which he loads up with sugar and milk.

“Don’t let anyone know I’m not a badass black-coffee drinker,” he tells Yuri.

They sit in silence for quite some time, Yuri fidgeting and trying not to pull his phone out to check his texts. This is the most awkward lunch date he’s ever been on. Lunch _outing_ , he corrects himself quickly. Not a _date_ of any kind, no matter what Altin thinks of his eyes.

Altin doesn’t seem nearly as uncomfortable, lounging in his chair, arms folded loosely. Not staring at Yuri, exactly, but not trying to avoid looking at him either.

Finally Yuri can’t take it anymore. “Why are you doing this?”

“What, buying you lunch? I just thought we could get to know each other.”

“Bullshit,” Yuri hisses.

Altin sighs, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. “You’re right, it’s bullshit. I wanted to do this somewhere better, but okay. I have a confession.”

Here it comes. Altin will say something gross about Yuri’s ass, Yuri will knock Altin’s tea into his lap, and then they’ll never speak again. Oddly, Yuri’s a little disappointed—why does Altin have such an urge to ruin things?

Altin takes a deep breath. “The truth is—you and I have met before.”

“No way,” Yuri says. “I don’t forget faces I’ve punched, and I’d _definitely_ have punched you.”

“You might remember me, if you’d ever looked at me.” Altin sounds more impressed than accusatory. “But nothing could distract you. The expression in your eyes—you’ve always been a warrior, Yuri. I admired that about you. Still do.”

Yuri remembers something Altin said the day they met. “Yakov’s training camp?”

Altin nods. “After that, whenever I felt like giving up, I thought of you.” Then a cocky grin appears on his lips. “Recently I’ve thought of you for other reasons, but—”

“God damn it, do you ever stop?”

“Do you want me to stop?” Altin holds Yuri’s gaze.

Yes, Yuri should say. Yes, Altin should leave him alone and chase after some other unfortunate athlete. He should sleep with half the Olympic village if he wants. Who cares.

But there’s a tightness in Yuri’s throat that won’t let him speak, and he drags his eyes away from Altin’s to stare at the tablecloth, tracing the patterns in the fabric with one fingertip.

Altin reaches across the table, not touching him, just resting his hand flat a few centimeters away from Yuri’s. “I like you,” he says. “I’d like to get to know you.”

Yuri jerks his hand away, resting it on his knee under the table instead. He can feel heat rising in his cheeks, a tell-tale reaction he’s never been able to stifle. “I didn’t work this hard just to become a checkmark on some asshole’s Olympic to-do list.”

“That’s fair,” Altin says, leaning back again. “I do have a list. But you’re not on it.”

“Wait, _what_?”

“Disappointed?”

Altin’s smirk strikes Yuri somewhere around the solar plexus, and he breathes out sharp and sudden. He tries to cover it up with a harsh laugh. “Of course not,” he snarls. “I don’t hook up with guys like you."

“It sounds like we’re in agreement,” Altin says. “So, are you going to become friends with me or not?”

Yuri narrows his eyes. “Are you going to keep hitting on me?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Altin’s grin could light up half the planet.

“You know you’re fucking shameless, right?”

“I have heard that, yes.”

Silently, Yuri sticks his hand out over the table.

Altin shakes it—though he runs his thumb over Yuri’s knuckles before letting go. “I’m Beka,” he says quietly.

“And you already know me,” Yuri says. “Beka. Okay.”

 

Yuri’s first-ever hockey game is the gold-medal round between Russia and Kazakhstan, and everyone can see him cheering for the wrong team, and he doesn’t care. Beka prowls the rink like some kind of big cat, snatching the puck out from under Russia’s sticks more times than Yuri can count. When one of Russia’s players moves to check him, Beka slips into a quick spread-eagle and escapes. Watching Beka’s feet, Yuri finally sees it: the years of getting up before sunrise, the countless hours of edge drills, the remnants of balletic grace that never came naturally, the split-second stops and turns like moves from a step sequence…it’s all in there, every bit of the history and pain and practice and devotion, yet not one single note of defeat. Beka never lost figure skating, Yuri realizes; he brought it with him and it’s made him unstoppable. And—beautiful.

Beka’s final assist gets the winning goal, and Yuri’s on his feet in an instant, screaming himself hoarse. He wants to run down to the boards, squeeze past everyone and launch himself at Beka to congratulate him, but that’s just not possible—and in just a couple of hours, the rink will be smooth and silent, ready for the men’s short program. Beka’s promised to come, even though it’ll mean being really, really late to the afterparty Kazakhstan will no doubt be having. The fact that Beka’s skipping out on a party where he’s a damn star, just to come watch Yuri skate—Yuri’s stomach does a funny little twist.

Get it together, he tells himself. Beka probably doesn’t even like parties and he just really likes figure skating and it’s no big deal.

 

Yuri sets a new personal best that night, and when he leaves the rink to get changed, there’s Beka, leaning against the wall by the locker room. “Hi,” Yuri says. “Did you see?”

“You were incredible.” Beka’s smile looks—soft and kind and just a bit _idiotic_ , if you ask Yuri, and there’s that flip in his belly again.

They’re not alone. Other skaters are milling around, chatting with friends and family, taking photos with roses and stuffed animals. Yuri jerks his head toward the exit. “Want to—”

“Yeah.” Beka pulls off his jacket, the same black leather one he’d worn on his motorcycle. “But the wind is fucking brutal, so put this on, okay?”

Yuri considers protesting: sure, Beka’s tough, but he’s tough too. The leather is worn and soft in his hands, though, and the stupid thing smells like Beka when he puts it on. And he doesn’t miss Beka’s little intake of breath when Yuri zips up the jacket. Maybe it’s not that important to look tough tonight.

Outside, they huddle together in the entryway, only half-protected from the wind. Beka jams his hands deep in his pockets, hunching his shoulders. “Were you at the game?”

“I said I would be, didn’t I?” Yuri rolls his eyes. “And you were—great.”

“What, you actually had _fun_?” Beka’s jaw drops. “You didn’t nearly perish from sheer boredom?”

“Oh my god, would you shut your fucking mouth?”

There’s that smirk again. “Why don’t you make me?”

Yuri bites his lip. “What if I did?”

For the first time in all of their encounters so far, Beka looks shocked. “You can,” he breathes. “If you want to.”

Yuri grabs the collar of Beka’s sweater, noticing Beka swallow hard. “Heads up,” he says, and pulls Beka into a kiss, knocking him off balance so he has to brace his hands on the wall on either side of Yuri’s head. Yuri lets his hands travel, over Beka’s shoulders, down his chest and around his waist, and when he grabs Beka’s hips, Beka moans into his mouth, and yeah, that’s good. Probably this will end up in the gossip blogs somehow, but who gives a fuck?

When Yuri stops for breath, Beka stares at him, wide-eyed. “I thought you didn’t hook up with guys like me.”

“I thought I wasn’t on your to-do list.”

“Lists can be edited,” Beka says, and this time it’s Beka’s fingers in his hair, Beka’s arm around his waist, almost lifting him off the ground.

Yuri closes his eyes tight and opens his mind to new possibilities. If he has any say in the matter, before the Games are over, he’s going to get to know Beka Altin inside and out.

**Author's Note:**

> •  _täte_ \- Kazakh, "aunt," a polite way to address an elderly woman
> 
> • The rink on a mountain actually exists and is called Medeu and is one of several reasons I legit want to visit Kazakhstan.
> 
> • True story: I have seen like 2 hockey games in my entire life, and they were just on TV. So I had to ask my best friend (who loves it almost more than life) what he thinks is the flashiest position, and that’s why Otabek’s a center. I also looked up “great hockey centers” and watched some videos to try to see what the hell they do, and my favorite was [this one](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8BwK2ECscX4) of a bunch of clips of Sidney Crosby being a badass. Once again I have Learned Shit via writing about things I don’t know.
> 
> • Otabek isn’t TERRIBLY ~bad, I know, but every hockey boy I’ve ever met has had a heart of gold and would do anything for you if they liked you, even the ones who were otherwise kind of assholes. So that’s the kind of inspiration I’m running with.
> 
> • Come say hi to [me at tumblr](http://meimagino.tumblr.com)! I like people. :)


End file.
